Seven Is The Number Of Perfection
by Baroness Emma
Summary: Six ways they didn't have their first kiss, and one way they did.


**A/N** - This is for all of you pining for Spock/Uhura in my long WIP "The Tides Of Vulcan". (We're getting there, I promise!)

About the title . . . . . . Fun fact! Leonard Nimoy is Jewish. (Yes, okay, you all knew that already, but bear with me here.) In Judaism, numbers can have meanings, and seven is the number of "completion" or "perfection". I do not find it at all surprising that Nimoy helped create a Vulcan culture that has many Jewish undertones (and overtones, really, if you look at it right). I was thinking about this recently and the plot bunnies descended. Make of that whatever you will. ;)

Enjoy!

* * *

=/\=

* * *

**One**

If he had not been Vulcan, he would have said he was excited. After spending eight years in space, he was finally going to serve aboard the Enterprise. Christopher Pike was to be the Captain, a recently graduated, but already well renowned cadet from the Academy called Kirk was to be First Officer, and he himself was to be Second Officer and head of the Science department.

As soon as he had beamed aboard, he met the rest of the bridge crew, and the particularly graceful Communications Officer called Uhura offered to show him to his quarters.

He wondered why. She was no minion - a Lieutenant Commander and the Third Officer - she did not need to stoop to escorting duties.

She preceded him into the turbolift. He found his eyes drawn to her legs far more than he should have allowed.

"_Deck Five_," she said in perfect Anakana Vulcan.

A slightly tense silence followed the closing of the turbolift doors.

For the first time in his life, he did not know what to say to a woman.

"I've read everything you've ever published, even from way back when you flew scoutships for the Vulcan Space Exploration Fleet."

He was grateful to her for breaking the silence.

"That is gratifying."

He hoped his voice was its normal calm, even tone.

But he wasn't sure.

"I based my masters thesis on one of your theories about subspace interference."

To repeat his statement of gratification would have been superfluous, so he merely nodded.

"The first non-full-blooded Vulcan to go to the Vulcan Science Academy. . ."

This was clearly not a statement he needed to respond to.

When the silence came back, however, he was more uncomfortable than ever.

He did not try to analyze why.

And then - it happened _so quickly _- her hand reached to his, two of her fingers sliding sensuously over his palm, and briefly curling around his own fingers with a thick, hot transference of her emotions that shocked his brain and melted his reserve.

Then she clasped her hands behind her back, like nothing had just happened.

He had no memory of how they came to arrive at his quarters.

He did not think he had invited her in either, but she came in with him, regardless.

"Lieutenant Commander Uhura. . ."

"Nyota."

"Miss Nyota, what. . ." He tried to ask her what was going on, but his brain was still filled with the sweet, joyous presence of her, and all her want, all her desire, _for him_.

She grinned at him, and said nothing.

He desperately gathered himself together.

"Miss Nyota, you are aware that there are several regulations regarding personal interactions between officers and their subordinates, are you not?" he asked, honestly unsure whether she did know or not.

"Oh, but I'm not your subordinate, Commander. Not unless something happens to Kirk." She grinned a lopsided, feral grin, "Make sure that never happens, okay?"

His fingertips tingled _most_ uncomfortably.

"My room is down the hall - number 12630," she began to. . . sway. . . out of his room, "I like chess, music, wine, and _long_ discussions about the philosophical and physiological differences between species."

She looked at him over her shoulder, "You bring the chocolate, and we're all set."

She left his quarters.

He has had many experiences with women of many species, but she is the only one who has ever flustered him.

He could still feel her kiss on his hand.

Perhaps. . . Perhaps. . .

There are many possibilities to consider here, but. . .

She might. . . be _the one_.

* * *

=/\=

* * *

**Two**

She sees him for the first time when she drops off Kaliah and Senek at the daycare center.

He is standing near the information desk. He doesn't have kids. She wonders why he's hanging around.

"I am conducting a behavioral study of children of members of Starfleet in hopes of attempting to design a starship that will accommodate families."

He states this without being asked.

She looks at him even more suspiciously.

"I am an empath," he says, in a bland tone, "And you were projecting your disapproval rather strongly just now. I felt it wise to explain."

She explains to him that she has an innate mistrust of single men who like to hang around children.

He indicates he understands with a small nod of his head.

It is a very Vulcan gesture, precise, but non-committal.

She tells two-year-old Senek to remember to be nice, and they scamper off to play with the other children.

"Your youngest is part Vulcan, I see."

She cringes,_ Here it comes. . . _"Actually, part Romulan."

He does not seem shocked or disgusted, but his next statement proves he _is_ quite curious, "His name is Vulcan."

"Well yes," she pauses, and her voice drops. The way she got Senek has been the deal-breaker for far more of her relationships than she cares to count, "I do not want to remember his father."

He nods and accepts her explanation without a single question.

It's the first thing she finds attractive about him.

* * *

Over the next two months, he seems to always cross her path, whether she is going to her evening Communications classes, or her early morning Phonology classes, he always seems to be there.

He's unobtrusive, but he's also impossible to ignore.

She stops him one evening, asking him sarcastically if he wants to walk her home, seeing as he's stalking her anyway.

He says he _does_ want to walk her home, but that he hoped no one _ever_ stalked her.

The tone of his voice implies he would take violent action against any such person.

She lets him fall into step with her, but she does not speak to him for many minutes.

"I was raped," she says finally, in a hard tone meant to scare him off, "by someone who stalked me for weeks beforehand."

"A Romulan," he says, entirely without emotion.

"Yes."

He says nothing, but does not radiate the disapproval that seeps from practically all the other people she has ever told about the incident.

It is the second thing she finds attractive about him.

* * *

The first time he asks her on a date, she says no.

He nods, and asks if he might at least accompany her home from the Academy.

He's the Professor of Interstellar Physics. She's a Communications major.

There's no conflict of interest.

She lets him walk her home every night for the whole semester.

* * *

The second time he asks her on a date, he makes sure he specifies that it is a _lunch _date, and that he'll meet her there if she wants - and that the place he has chosen is outdoors, bright, very public, and very popular.

She pauses a second before she says yes.

* * *

The kids accept him like he's their older brother, not someone who is going out with their mom. He brings them ingenious toys and mentally challenging games, and one night, he even cancels a dinner reservation because Kaliah wants them to stay in and have them watch a puppet show she wrote herself. Its a very silly fairy tale production, full of princesses and knights and big clumsy battles and horribly immature love scenes, and as they watch, Nyota cringes to think what his opinion must be of her as a parent. He _can't_ approve of old socks festooned with tinsel being used in such a manner, she's sure. About nine languages are sprinkled throughout the trite script too, and for a grand finale Senek pops five or six party crackers into the air, exulting with an ancient Vulcan battle cry.

She tries not to be embarrassed.

But, he actually says he _enjoyed_ it, and tells Kal that her imagination and creativity show very interesting promise, and that she should continue to invest her time in such productions. He even compliments Senek on his pronunciation of several Vulcan words.

The most shocking thing is that she can feel that he _means_ it.

He's an empath. He can't hide what he means, no matter how emotionless his voice gets.

After that, she doesn't deflect his questions about her daughter, and she finds herself telling him about the. . . _jerk_. . . who for two years had called himself her husband, but ran off when he found out about Senek.

He clenches his teeth and says a very rude Klingon word.

For the first time in over two years, she actually laughs comfortably in the presence of a man.

* * *

They've been dating six months, and she can feel herself falling more than a little in love.

He's never tried to touch her, not even a little, but then, he's Vulcan, so she's not entirely sure what that means.

Then he tells he he's only _half _Vulcan, and gives her a little bit of his own history.

For the first time, she understands_ why _he might _actually want her_.

* * *

One morning he takes her for coffee, and she breaks down when she sees him removing the tea bag from his pot of hot water.

He is entirely confused at why she is crying about his breakfast, but again he asks no questions, throws the whole thing away, and takes her to a place that serves only Betazoid food, and the bright orange drinks and purple pastries bear no resemblance to the tea and scone that had upset her.

She never does explain herself after that one, but he doesn't seem to need her to.

* * *

He's been planning this afternoon's outing for weeks. He's been telling her that it's a surprise, that she must dress especially nice, and that there will most likely even be pictures taken so Kal and Senek can see what happened that night.

He's built up the date so much, she's almost afraid he's going to propose.

She really, really wants him to.

But the babysitter can't come tonight.

She's called everywhere, to all the places she trusts, and no one, not even Gaila, can watch the kids tonight. Tomorrow night, yes, but not tonight.

She wants to smash the communicator against the wall, but that would upset the kids, so she doesn't.

She does dress up, just for him, hoping her looks will soften the blow, but she's still scared to death that he's going to turn right around and leave when she tells him how much she does not want to leave her kids alone tonight.

He shows up, in a tux. A _tux-e-do. _She's never seen a man wearing a tux before. Her ex didn't even wear one to the wedding.

She takes a deep breath and tells him she can't make it, and why.

She can see gears whirring in his head, and of course, _of course_ he would have a backup plan, why didn't she think of that?

He bows, like some ancient seventeenth century gentleman, and gallantly kisses her hand.

She makes no mistake. It's a real kiss.

She hasn't been touched so sweetly. . . _ever_.

"Perhaps, Nyota, you should simply _bring our children_."

She looks up at him. He is smiling with an eyebrow.

"We are, after all, only going to the zoo."

Two hours later, with the kids sticky with ice cream, both his tux and her gown smeared with petting zoo food, their shoes filthy from dozens of animal's droppings, and a few suspicious wisps of straw sticking out of her hair from a very brief impromptu makeout session against a haystack, he proposes, right next to a smelly cage full of exotic Amazonian birds, and as she says yes, she decides that no date has ever been more romantic.

* * *

=/\=

* * *

**Three**

While it was unusual for a Captain of Starfleet vessel to have to ask for shore leave, this was an unusual case, and Spock accepted that.

The Enterprise was in space dock around Vulcan, receiving repairs after the destruction of the _Narada_.

Saving his homeworld had been very difficult, not just on him, but on Starfleet as a whole.

They had lost Earth.

It was far too much for him to process at the moment - he would need hours of meditation to even begin to deal with it.

But there were Human refugees to organize, and a planet to find for them. There was a culture to save.

One of _his _cultures. He and his mother were now members of an endangered species.

In the Captain's ready room, he slumped over a PADD, making out another endless report, and planning another endless meeting.

He had made Nyota his First Officer after Kirk had been killed by the Romulans, and she was on the surface of Vulcan at the moment, co-ordinating much of the housing and supply efforts.

Humans and Vulcans, now united by the terror of a common enemy and the massive trauma of loss, were banding together like never before.

Soon, more than a third of Vulcan's population would be Human refugees.

A temporary arrangement, but welcomed by both races, somewhat to the surprise of everyone.

Spock suspected that Vulcan would blossom with desert roses under the water of Human hands. It was the one good thing that had come from this.

Well, that and Nyota finally acknowledging that she loved him.

He had pursued her for years while she was at the Academy, but she was far too focused on her career to give him more than friendly notice, even when he had practically demanded that she, and she alone, be his research student.

Yet, when her planet had crumbled into dust, it had been him she had turned to, and his chest she had wept on, and his bed she fell onto, exhausted by her quite justifiable emotions. It had been her dreams he shared that night, three weeks ago, curled up behind her, she under the covers and he on top of them. It had been her images of them together that had reassured him that his pursuit of her was not in vain.

He must get close to her again.

He messaged Admiral Pike, asking, begging really, for some time off, on the surface of his homeworld.

Christopher messaged back that it was about damn time he asked.

Spock sighed with relief, gave Sulu the bridge, and went to the transporter room. He did not need to pack anything.

He only needed Nyota.

He found her in one of the office buildings that the Vulcan High Council had allotted the Human refugees, with piles of PADDs all around her, organizational matrices open all over the computer screens, dark circles under her eyes, and dried tear tracks on her face.

He swept her away, dismissing with one gesture all of the stress and responsibility of their assignments, and putting her in a hovercar, said that if she was amenable, they would spend the weekend at his father's lakeside house. She had nodded, and then slept for most of the journey.

Their first night alone, he cooked, opened some of his mother's prized wines, walked along the shores of the salt lake with her, and built a glowing coal fire against the chill in the living room after dinner.

As she sipped the last glass of the bottle of Burgundy, she asked when he had become "so romantic".

He replied that he always had been - she had just never noticed.

She curled up next to him, and confessed that she didn't think she'd ever be able to recover from the pain in her heart.

He said he was more than willing to live with that.

She looked him in the eyes for a long time, seeing nothing there but truth, and a longstanding _love_ she had never given back until now.

She ran her fingers down his jawline and then, suddenly, kissed him, hard, full on the mouth. He started with the unexpectedness of it, but did not let her go, deepening and softening the kiss until they both needed air.

She half smiled at him, her eyes sparkling with surprise and anticipation, "So. . . was that worth your wait?"

A small, twisted smile formed on his face, but he did not speak.

She kissed his cheek, and sighed, "How long do we have?"

"I have a three day pass, Nyota."

"Mmm. That's not long enough."

He was unable to answer, as her mouth was on his again, but he was absolutely certain that three days together was only the beginning.

* * *

=/\=

* * *

**Four**

Her Spock had died the day the _Narada_ attacked the Vulcan Fleet.

Another Spock, old enough to have fathered her great grandfather, had ordered her Spock to take a strange, invertebrate-looking ship into the clutches of the huge mining ship, and ignite something he had called "red matter".

Her Spock had done it. Had saved the Vulcan Fleet in their battle against the fearsome Terran Fleet and the invading Admiral Kirk who had, somehow, called that huge Romulan ship out of empty space, and pointed it at the Vulcans, laughing that he would soon rule the entire galaxy. . .

Kirk had also died that day.

But it was her Spock, Prince Spock, that mattered.

She had given up her race and political allegiance to be with him, and he had promised to make her his Empress.

After a long and bitter family argument that had cost four planets their very lives, Emperor Sarek and Empress T'Rea had relented, saying Spock could choose his own bride, but that he must also keep her - they would not be responsible for her safety.

It was only later, much later, that Spock had revealed his half-Human heritage, and the kidnapping and ransom that had claimed his mother's life.

The revelation had not made Nyota any more scared than she had been before. Spock was strong, frighteningly strong, and controlled the Fleet with an iron grip. She'd be safer on board a ship with him than on Vulcan's surface, that was certain.

Only one Terran squadron had gotten past Vulcan's defenses that day, and _everyone_ knew that it was no accident that it had made a successful bombing raid on the Palace, killing the Emperor and Empress _before_ they could retreat to the safety of the underground bunkers.

Kirk had bragged incautiously about it, never realizing that Spock had _planned_ to let his father and stepmother die in the assault.

And then Kirk had called the _Narada_ through what could only be called a _hole in space_, and suddenly the Vulcan fleet was overmatched.

In a day full of the unexpected, however, the thing that had surprised her Spock the most was the advent of this older, somehow even more powerful Spock.

Her Spock had been strong, but he had been a callow, snivelling weakling compared to this Spock.

The older version of himself had given him a direct order - and he had unquestioningly obeyed.

It had been the elder Spock who had sat on the bridge during the climactic battle, who had ordered the remaining Vulcan ships into a formation that would not be damaged by the exploding _Narada_, and it was this older Spock who had not flinched in the slightest when it was reported that her Spock had been lost in the blast.

He took that as he took all news - like it did not touch him, and never could.

She didn't know if she was sickeningly appalled, or painfully attracted.

* * *

She had helped to oversee the final crushing of the Terran Fleet, and to organize the remainder of the Vulcan ships. Her Spock had taught her many useful things. . .

In a few days, no doubt, after Vulcan had chosen a new Emperor, they would go to Earth, and subdue it as they had been threatening to do for generations.

She took off her headdress and outer robes, trying not to feel the emptiness in her mind left by the death of her Spock.

Her fate was one of the many things which would be decided in the next few days. A lone Human, betrothed to a dead prince? Of what worth was she?

The chime on her door sounded, and before she could answer it, the elder Spock strode in, calmly demanding that she speak with him.

She could do nothing but agree.

He was old. But only the edges of his neat goatee were frosted with grey.

He looked at her with as much interest as if he were a child of fourteen.

"You are the fourth Nyota I have seen," he intoned, clearly indicating other alternate timelines, other dimensions, other _hers_.

"You are the first one I have ever wanted."

Cold ice clawed through her stomach.

"What are you saying?" she asked steadily.

He smirked, stepping close to her and drawing one of his hands up and down her arm, "Emperor Sarek is dead. His son is dead. Except I am also, _genetically_, his son."

He pulled her to him and looked down into her wide eyes.

"Do you still want to be an Empress?"

* * *

That night, she dreamt of dueling Spocks, one old, one young, both armed with deadly barbed swords, fighting, maiming, spilling each other's blood for _her_ sake, and her sake alone.

She had issued the marriage challenge, and they would fight until one killed the other.

Through the clouds of red dust and smears of green blood, she could not tell which one wore her Spock's face. . .

She did not even know which one to think of as hers anymore. . .

With a shout and a spray of hot green across her face, it was over, and the victor stalked forward to claim her. Two fingers slid against her own, sharp teeth marked her collarbone, but which one. . . which one was it?

She was never to know.

She opened her eyes with a start. A strong, wiry arm was wrapped around her waist, and she could feel hot breath on the back of her neck. He was here. In her room. In her bed. Holding her. Why was he here? What was he doing?

"Ahh, you are awake," he laughed at her thoughts - he could so obviously hear them - "You called to me in your dreams, my little Star of Freedom." He said the pet name that only her Spock should have known. "Ahh, but I am yours too," he breathed, his lips hotly touching her neck, the scrape of his beard raising gooseflesh all over her body. "I could not stay away. . ."

She could elbow him in the gut and make a grab for the knife she always stowed under her pillow, she could slice and carve at him, until his green blood on her hands erased the dream memory of green blood on her face, she could. . .

"You could consent to marry me," he purred into her ear, "I promise that will be much easier." His teeth closed over her earlobe, the sharp shock of their chisel-edges finally giving her back the power of speech.

"I will make that decision when I am ready, and _not before_."

He laughed, and there was a surprising undertone of real happiness in it.

"Yes." She could feel him smile against her shoulder, "Yes, you will, I am sure of it."

She realized that she had no idea what he had just said yes about.

For one moment he pulled her to him, pressing his lips to her neck, sliding his whole body against hers, ever so briefly. It was like a full-body kiss, and it made her ache.

Then he arose from her bed, and walked out of her room.

She _almost_ called him back.

In that moment, she was sure it was _he_ who had won.

* * *

=/\=

* * *

**Five**

For the first time in their whole relationship, he's late.

He was supposed to meet her at five.

That was twenty minutes ago.

With anyone else, she would shrug it off, but this is _him_, and he is never late by a fraction of a second if he can help it, and if he can't, he calls immediately.

She pulls out her communicator, looks at the clock it contains, and for a full minute watches the seconds tick by.

He still hasn't called.

He got back from Earth only three days ago - maybe his circadian rhythms have not yet fully adjusted? No, no what is she thinking? He can adjust his internal clock in fifteen _minutes_, three days was more than long enough.

She can't think of any other reason he'd be late, however.

She sighs, and twists her wedding ring on her finger, thinking about the day he gave it to her.

Five years ago, today.

Vulcans don't "do" anniversaries, but he said he'd pick her up at five, in honor of their fifth year together.

Five years = the fifth hour of the afternoon. It's his very Vulcan way of being romantic, and she appreciates it.

If only he'd _call_.

* * *

They had moved to Vulcan when she was twenty-eight, and he was thirty, not because of their personal association, but because of some catastrophic misunderstandings about their association.

They had both been thrown out of Starfleet for fraternization.

The irony was that absolutely _nothing_ had passed between them at that point.

He had been an innuendo-clueless Professor, and she had been an almost fanatically driven Cadet. Not so much as an inappropriate glance had happened in the whole three years they had worked together. Not from either of them. They hadn't had _time_.

But, apparently, the word of sons of Heroes of the Federation carried more weight than the word of the _Vulcan_ son of the Esteemed Vulcan Ambassador.

Nyota still hated Kirk for that stunt, but supposed he had got his comeuppance. He had died destroying the laser which had been drilling into Vulcan's surface, sacrificing his life, and saving a whole planet.

If he hadn't been such a monumental ass, she would have felt thankful to him.

As it was, she tolerated his memory.

Spock had insisted on holding himself responsible for her, and promised her a good job at the Embassy if she moved to Vulcan. He was going back himself, and he would see to it that she was cared for if she went with him.

Five weeks later, he had proposed. She had said yes. T'Pau bonded them a week later. He'd given her a ring a week after that.

It wasn't a love match, just a convenient way for them to avoid explaining themselves anymore, and she supposed, it was a nice way of cementing their friendship.

He made no demands on her. She made fewer demands on him. They had both been prepared long ago to live without passion, save, perhaps, for their work.

It was a satisfactory arrangement. It had been for five years.

* * *

She looks around the walkway outside, sure that she can hear him calling her name, but no, he is not there.

_Yes, I am, wife, I am here, come to me. . .no . . . no. . . do not come. . ._

Well, _that_ was new, whatever it was. . .

She tells herself she is _not_ getting slightly angry. . .

Finally, _finally_ her communicator beeps, but it is not him, it's Lady Amanda, his mother.

"We're sending a hovercar for you Nyota, dear," she says, a tremor of fear in her voice, "Spock can't come to you right now - you must go to him."

"What?" she asks her mother-in-law, "What, why?"

"When you get in the hovercar, I'll explain."

And she does.

Oh yes, she does.

And afterward, Nyota thinks that if Spock survives his Time, he and she are going to have _long_ talk about what _exactly_ "marital duties" _mean_ to a Vulcan, and she is very pointedly going to ask him _why _he never explained this_ thing _to her a long time ago.

That idiot was going to let himself _die_ rather than make her do something she wasn't entirely emotionally invested in doing?

Well, she was bloody well emotionally invested _now_, wasn't she?

As the hovercar nears his location, he touches her mind again.

She pushes back, tentatively, unsure of this connection still, but then his desire, his need pours through to her, and she can't _believe _he's ever felt this way about anyone, mush less for her.

Suddenly, she can't get to him fast enough.

When she opens the door to the caves, he is five meters away from her, kneeling in front of a lighted firepot.

He is _much_ too far away.

The kiss he gives her when she finally gets to him, makes her think that maybe, just maybe, she _couldn't_ live without passion.

* * *

=/\=

* * *

**Six**

"I must admit, Ambassador, that I am surprised at this proposal."

"Certainly, Sir, you cannot be unaware of your daughter's worth?"

"Not of her worth, no, but she is only six."

"At the beginning of her seventh year, yes. My son is also that age."

"And hence, my surprise. . ."

"You have lived long enough among us to understand our ways, have you not?"

"Yes, Ambassador, but we are still not your species, no matter how long we have lived on the same planet."

"And do not think, Sir, that I am unaware of where exactly my son comes when he sneaks out at night, or the company he inevitably keeps while at an official function."

"That is entirely innocent, and does not bear on the matter at all!"

"It _is _innocent, and it is the _entire_ matter - as you would know, if you truly understood our ways."

The tall, dark-skinned Human paused for a very long while, looking intently at the olive-skinned Vulcan who had come to negotiate for his child. . .

"I am not going to do anything without consulting my wife and daughter. . ."

"An excellent suggestion, Mwenye."

"You never fail to surprise me, Sarek."

* * *

At dawn, almost a week later, Spock strode to the middle of a circle of standing stones, holding a mallet that was almost a tall as he was. His mother and father stood behind him, in front of the East archway.

T'Pau and her retinue stood, silent and stern, in the center of the circle, awaiting the ritual that Spock must begin.

He strode to the gong which hung on the altar, and with a mighty swing from such small arms, he struck it, hard.

Then, in his childish voice, he called for his wife to come forth.

Mwenye, dressing in bright, traditional African clothing, and his wife Sanaa, similarly dressed, came through the opposite archway, leading their little daughter, who was swathed in a gorgeous piece of hand-woven, pure white cotton, and was grinning at everyone she saw. She waved when she saw Spock.

He did not wave back, but raised the mallet again, and struck the gong twice, then dropped the mallet to the ground.

She ran to him and, with difficulty, raised the mallet herself, and grunting a little, struck the gong too, off-center, and not as hard as he had done, but it was enough.

T'Pau came forward, and raised her hands. She spoke in the Highest of ancient tongues.

"As it was in the beginning; So it is now. This is the Vulcan Heart; This is the Vulcan Soul."

She gestured for the two children to come and stand in front of her. They did. She placed her hands carefully on each of their faces, and swiftly created a mental bond between them of the kind which could not easily be broken, and would, in its day, save her small grandson's life.

_It is done_, she said into both young minds.

She felt them exploring their new connection.

_Hello, Spock._

_Hello, Nyota._

Then, he held out two small, still chubby fingers, and Nyota happily hooked her own two fingers into his. She danced next to him, not releasing his fingers, but trying to get him be as happy as she was.

He tried to pull her out of the ring of standing stones, but she would not go until he had at least smiled, so she let go of his hand, and threw her arms around him, bringing her small pucker of a mouth to smack against his cheek.

When the adults saw the look on his face after that, they were all glad they had done as they did.

Spock was ready to do something else.

"Come, my wife, we will play _Kai-ros_, now."

She nodded, marked out the hopscotch grid, picked up a pebble, and they played in the circle of standing stones, under the watchful eyes of Time, which had decreed that they grow up together.

* * *

=/\=

* * *

**Seven**

The first time he touches her mouth, he keeps chanting to himself that the touch was not necessary, and therefore not logical, and he should be ashamed.

They have engaged in public social interactions three times by that point, a process she calls "dating".

She asks him if he "wants to". He says he does not object to spending time of that nature with her. She says she finds him acceptable.

Actually, she hugs him, calls him "awesome", and grins at him, expectant that he will use all his ingenuity to make their time together "special".

He intends to.

She also says she "cannot wait".

He does not say that desiring time travel for such a minor event is illogical. He lets her be Human.

She lets him be who he is - reciprocating is only fair.

Their first "date" is at an underwater aquarium outside Cairns, Australia.

He rationalizes the cost of the transporter tickets - neither of them have been there before, and observing the oceanic flora and fauna shown there will be useful to both of them professionally. . .

Then she laughs at one of the jellyfish moving through the tanks, and he is woefully distracted for the rest of their time there.

The same thing happens during their second date as observers at a game of Parrises squares.

When it happens again during an innocuous walk down Pier 39, their third date, he wonders about his sanity. When did her laughter become preferable to every other sound?

They are watching the sea lions roll and bark on their small floating platforms. To be precise, _he_ is watching them, _she_ is laughing at them. He does not object.

Then, a particularly aggressive seagull interrupts, with a rush of wings, and a splattering of the leftover french fries and ketchup it was absconding with all over their clothes and faces.

She laughs at the mess as easily as she laughs at everything else.

Without thinking, he raises his hand and wipes away a smear of the tomato sauce from her face. The rim of his thumb brushes her lips.

Her skin is soft.

Her lips are softer.

Her eyes widen. Her face is. . . confused.

Her emotions. . . are even more so.

As she leaves to go clean up, he hates himself for being Vulcan, and unable to express himself, yet so easily able to disturb what was once satisfactory.

The touch was not necessary.

He should feel ashamed.

He doesn't.

As he washes his face in the men's room, seven different apologies circle around in his head.

"Cadet, I was inappropriate. . ."

"My people do not touch. I was unprepared. . ."

"Uhura, you have my apologies. . ."

"I did not think. It was reprehensible. . ."

"Nyota, please forgive me. . ."

"If my actions have damaged. . ."

"_Ashal-veh_, I am sorry. . ."

None of them work. Even in his mind, they all sound pitifully clumsy.

They come out of the refresher units at the same time.

She looks at him, something in her eyes he has never seen there before. She grabs the hem of his long sleeved cotton shirt and _drags_ him back down the pier, to a hoverbus stop, then drags him onto it, and then off of it, and then up to the small apartment she rents. There is anger in her posture.

Nothing has ever frightened him more.

She closes the door, then pushes him back against it, her fist against where his solar plexus would be if he were Human. She demands to know his intentions, what he _feels_ about her, and she threatens violence if he uses _any_ of what she calls "Vulcan bullshit".

He tries to explain.

He really does.

But no words will come, not a single syllable, in any language.

Instead, he looks at her, trying to express with his eyes what his stubborn Vulcan heart _cannot_ say.

When his hands come up in an infinitely tender embrace, she does not pull away.

He leans forward, calculating angles and vectors and pressure forces - he has never done this with a Human before.

Then her scent hits him, and everything else is irrelevant.

Her lips twitch with a kind of laughter the like of which he has never heard from anyone.

She leans forward too, accepting his advance.

The second time he touches her mouth, he wonders how he ever thought this was unnecessary.

* * *

=/\=


End file.
